


To know him as he only knows himself

by TheyDraggedMeInNowIAintLeaving



Series: SPN Kink Bingo 2017 [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Dean, Alpha Endverse Dean Winchester, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Episode: s05e04 The End, M/M, Omega Dean, Omega Dean Winchester, References to Knotting, Self-cest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-11
Updated: 2017-08-11
Packaged: 2018-12-14 02:59:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11774106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheyDraggedMeInNowIAintLeaving/pseuds/TheyDraggedMeInNowIAintLeaving
Summary: Dean goes to sleep in 2009 and wakes up in 2014. But the longer he stays the more he realizes that this mightnotbe his actual future





	To know him as he only knows himself

**Author's Note:**

> Made for SPN Kink Bingo & SPN ABO Bingo  
> Square filled: Panty Kink
> 
> Usual disclaimers.  
> Comments, kudos and constructive critism is welcome.

It didn’t take a genius to figure out there was something wrong, when he’d woken up in a motel room significantly more run down than the one he’d gone to sleep in. It hadn’t taken too much brain power naming Zacharia the culprit of that particular predicament, but finding out that he was suddenly five years into his own future? Well, that one had been a little difficult to wrap his head around.

Finding Bobby’s chair littered with bullet holes had been worse, but at least it had given him a place to go to search for Cas, who could hopefully help him get back to his own time, help him prevent this nightmare from happening. Of course he got distracted by the sight of Baby in that miserable condition and of course distractions are the things that get you killed in this line of work, so Dean should probably be happy that it only ended up giving him a head ache and a small bump in the back of his head.

He comes to with a quiet groan, his eyelids heavy as he slowly tries to pry them apart to get a look at his surroundings; the clanking of metal against metal and the cold grasp around his wrist is not unexpected and for the time being not enough of a nuisance to be a priority.  
However, it’s still a shock when he opens his eyes and comes face to face with… himself!? The man’s definitely more battle worn than Dean is, but he supposes five years and the croatoan virus will do that to him, even if Dean thinks the guy could maybe loosen up a little and point that gun somewhere else than at his face. Then the other him wants him to tell something nobody else would know and before he can think too long and hard about it he’s telling about Rhonda Hurley, the girl who starred in some of his dreams back when he was nineteen, and not for her rack – however great it was – but for the contents of that one particular dresser drawer.

Turns out that even bonding over satiny panties Future Dean is every bit as distrustful as Dean is, and though he understands it doesn’t stop him from calling him a dick when he leaves the cabin with Dean still handcuffed to the ladder.  
Hours and some very sore fingers later he manages to escape the unwanted bracelets, taking of in the search of the only angel who’ll ever be on his side. He hopes.

~

Nightfall comes quickly and they gather in Future Dean’s cabin, going over the plan for the attack on Lucifer. Dean’s been wondering for hours now that something isn’t right; he’ll buy that Cas has lost his mojo and decided to spend his time in decadence, even that a prophet of the Lord feel the need to tell him to hoard toilet paper, just as he’s willing to take every other little detail as truth, as Zacharia showing him the consequences of his continued denying of Michael.  
But that’s before Cas and Risa leaves the cabin, before Future Dean steps closer to tell him about Sammy and Dean manages to get a proper whiff of the other man. Now Dean’s quite familiar with the way he smells, the way he practically oozes leather and gun powder on most days and sometimes with a little added burnt flesh and singed eyebrows after a particularly difficult salt and burn. But underneath, buried in layers upon layers of everything else are the sweet, tantalizing notes of _omega_ something he’s never managed to get entirely rid of. But this version of himself, this ‘Dean’ from supposedly five years into his future, has no faint sugary smell to his scent but rather the warm, musky smell of alpha.

And then it’s not a matter of angels and the devil or the colt or the fact that by this time tomorrow everybody is most likely dead and he’ll be back in his own time – own world? – but rather finding out if this Future Dean or what the heck ever he is, is anything like Dean himself, and there’s no thought to it, to the way he reaches out, the way his fingers grab the green fabric and pushes it down broad, familiar shoulders; the shirt refuses to follow and has to end its life on the altar of his impatience, the sound of the buttons landing on the floor drowned out by two identical moans as their lips collide.

For a while they stand chest to naked chest trying to devour each other with teeth and tongue. Hands gripping onto strands of dirty blonde hair, tugging just the right side of painful and Dean spares a second to think that even if it’s not himself, the alpha still reacts like he would. He gives up on deliberate thinking after that, just holds on for dear life, trying to give as good as he gets.  
Soon they progress to the fine art of marking up the other; tilting the head to the side only to latch on to an exposed neck _sucking_ as if it’s a three course meal and they’re starving. It’s Dean who moves things along, curiosity getting the better of him as he trails biting kisses down the muscular torso, hurriedly as if he’s afraid he’ll be stopped before he’s done, breathing a sigh of relief as he reaches the belt and as he bends knees he starts undoing it, the jeans button and the zipper. He stops there, tilts his head back to catch Future Dean’s (though maybe he should call him something else) eyes, surprise clear in his face. The alpha looks down, his chest heaving with every breath, a flush to his skin all the way to his navel and yet there’s a challenging gleam in his eyes, a smug smile on his lips as he cants his hips a little, brushing the soft material hidden beneath the coarse jeans against Dean’s lips.

He has no control over his tongue when it flicks across the bulge so close to him nor the smirk on his own face at the resulting full body shudder from the man above him, but it spurs him on to slowly pull down the jeans, revealing the sight before him.  
They’re neither pink nor satiny but that doesn’t make them any less perfect.

At first glance they might not be considered anything remarkable or even special, nothing more than an ordinary pair of black, cotton boxer briefs. But Dean knows better than anyone how deceiving that first glance can be, knows very well that these are anything but ordinary, can tell without touching how they’ll feel against his skin – _all_ of it – and yet he’s dying to reach out, to let his fingers stroke gently along the seam, trace the hard length trapped beneath the fabric and perhaps even sneak his hand down past the waist line to be surrounded by both skin and fabric.

They’re soft, well-worn and washed to the point where they barely feel like a foreign object against your skin but still retain the shape and functionality they were designed for. Up close the waist band looks like lace, the pattern so carefully laid that Dean expects to feel the roughness of it against the tips of his fingers as he follows the path of the fabric – from the dip revealing a tantalizing glimpse of pubic hair outwards to the jut of hipbones sticking out like blades, further around to the gentle swell of a cheek (one for each hand) until they meet at the top of the cleft.

From there it’s simply a matter of letting his hands slide further down, spanning across the cloth covered cheeks as his thumbs strokes along the edge of each cheek careful not press too hard against the fabric, before making their way to the front once again by way of the band around the leg holes with a short detour to the gap between the man’s thighs, a careful exploration of every sound and movement to be drawn from him by doing nothing more than caressing his sac and perineum through the cotton.

When Dean’s finally satisfied – and the grip on his hair becomes perhaps a tad too painful to ignore anymore – he lets his hands wander upwards again, cupping the rigid flesh, tracing the protruding vein all the way to the leaking head; the damp patch growing around it.  
Dean’s momentarily distracted by the way the soles of his feet hurt, the pinch in the muscles of his shins and has to take a few seconds to readjust from the squat he’s been sitting in since he reached the alpha’s belt to kneeling, and then leaning forward his breath warm against even warmer skin, a strangled gasp from the man above him enough to spur him on as he mouths along the ridge, saliva mixing with precum staining the cotton further, the air heavy with the smell of sex.

Eons later Dean reaches the head peeking over the waist band for him to wrap his lips around. Sucking at the tip his hands free to resume their previous exploration, one focusing on the back the other on the front, letting him enjoy the contrasts of soft and firm, the coarse smoothness of the fabric and the velvety rigidness of the flesh in his mouth, the firm muscles in one hand and the thin skin under the other. Dean has never really realized the significance before, has never given thought to the different textures as something to derive pleasure from and here he is, almost thirty years old, coming untouched in his jeans like a teenager with what is essentially his own dick in his mouth. If it hadn’t been this good he’d might even been embarrassed.

Once they’ve both come down from their highs - the salty aftertaste shared between them diluted by their spittle, their breaths evened out and their blood coursing a little slower through their veins – Dean finally sheds his own layers.

There’s nothing slow about it, no time for slow as they’re on a tight schedule, though there is time to relish the hunger in Future Dean’s face before Dean turns, hands and knees firmly placed on the rough wooden floor. There’s neither warning nor hesitation as two fingers breaches him, their way eased by Dean’s slick as they’re sheathed inside him; the stretching is nothing more than half a courtesy a few scissoring movements before something larger than fingers take their place. The alpha bottoms out in one smooth move before stopping long enough for Dean to adjust to the feeling and realize he hasn’t taken of the cotton panties he was wearing.  
The thought making heat shoot through him, sweat pooling at the base of his spine the line of his hair and he involuntarily clenches around the flesh buried inside him, silently urging the other man to move. Thankfully – Dean’s has lost the ability to form words – he gets it, obediently thrusts harder and harder to the point where he once again starts growing, the bulbous gland catching on Dean’s rim to the point where it’s painful to have the man draw back. 

And then he’s _there_ , locked inside him with nowhere to go than grinding deeper, deeper still; the feel of the tip against Dean’s prostate, the gentle brush of cotton against his skin, the soft rasp of it whenever either of them moves the slightest has him spilling onto the floor with nothing but a quiet sigh, his muscles clamping down around the knot as the other him stiffens above him, giving him everything.

~

Leaving the cabin is bittersweet but at least he gets to see his brother again.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is a line from "The Last Witch Hunter", because if I have to suffer through imagining Vin Diesel and Elijah Wood doing the do, so do you


End file.
